


Sweet Dream Or A Beautiful Nightmare

by Redhead_Maniac



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Blood, Fantasy, Horribble OOC everywhere, M/M, Psychological Drama, Wings, crazy people, dubcon, ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redhead_Maniac/pseuds/Redhead_Maniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is loosing it after Lori dies, and stumbles upon something unexpected deep within the maze of the walker-infested cell-block...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dream Or A Beautiful Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gevion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevion/gifts).



> Read the tags please. OOC, very much so in my humble opinion. I hate OOC, but I digress, the idea was eating me.  
> Apologies for not updating my other works/leaving reviews. Will be done once the (Russian) Fandom Battle is over.
> 
> HIGHLY RECCOMENDED: listen to "Dalton Deschain - S&M" while reading.

"So, Rick Grimes," the sheriff whips around, heart nearly bursting out of his chest at the deep, startling rumble behind him. Rick isn't sure what he sees just then in the darkness of the abandoned cell-block, but he clutches at his Python, ready to aim and shoot.

"Took ya long enough," the voice is definitely male, and Rick strains his vision to discern a kneeling figure, its pose resembling that of a runner or a dog ready to leap upon hearing a trigger command or a whistle.

"Who are you?" his voice cracks just the slightest bit, probably from having screamed himself sore for hours beforehand.

The figure chuckles, and the darkness around it seems to move, slithering back and...up? Rick curses and takes a hasty step back, the sudden realization dawning on him. Wings. Those are freaking _wings_.

But how? That's impossible.

"W-what are you?" he stutters, mind swirling with confusion and fear, his body going into tremors from exhaustion. He's been swinging that ax for the past two hours, maybe more. He can't remember.

"Doesn't really matter, now does it?" The _thing_ snorts and rises, and as the faint light (almost non-existent, really) coming from the barred windows swipes across the all too well-known features, Rick's finger twitches on the gun, mouth going dry.

"Daryl?"

The thing with Daryl's face doesn't reply, and Rick holds his breath as he studies the man (thing?) before him. There's something terribly wrong with his features, but he can't place his finger on _what_.

He tries anyway.

For starters, Daryl never has such an intense, strange gleam in his eyes, and his lips most definitely don't pull into the kind of smirk that can be described as nothing short of condescending.

There's something else that makes him shiver and the hairs on his arms stand on end. He still can't grasp it.

Rick wants to back off and run, but he's too afraid to turn his back to the creature.

Meanwhile, Daryl's look-alike glides across the floor, footsteps leisurely slow and heavy, like a predator knowing it's victim has no escape, eating up the ground with long, purposeful strides. Eating up, as Rick himself will be.

To put it mildly, Grimes is cornered.

"Daryl, what's going on?" The rational part of his mind knows this isn't Daryl, _can't_ be Daryl, but how else can he explain the appearance of a man with the same face in their prison cell-block? And he doesn't even want to _think_ about two huge, black wings protruding from his shoulder-blades.

They're spread and held high to intimidate, though not grand in size, but the feathers are long and sharp, successfully making up for that. Nothing like an angel's from the pictures Rick has seen as a kid. He's sure that these feathers will pierce right through your temple if you'd be fool enough to use them for your pillow stuffing.

God, what is he thinking? There is a God-damned winged doppelgänger standing right in front of him, and he's thinking of stuffing a pillow?

Rick's breaths become labored, and in a snap moment of sudden clarity he regrets dropping the ax somewhere in the depths of the walker-infested corridors.

"Rick Grimes," the creature repeats, stopping abreast of the sheriff, their noses almost touching. He can feel its (his?) warm breath fanning over his face, can see those familiar, yet a stranger's blue eyes slitted in a measuring glare.

Taking in a quick breath, Rick raises his weapon, pointing it right into Daryl's chest.

"What do you want?" Rick demands, and his blood runs cold as the thing's lips stretch into a thin smirk, an amused "hmph" coming out of its mouth.

"You stupid or something? You."

"Get away from me, or I won't hesitate to shoot," Grimes husks out, adrenaline still rushing through his veins as his voice begins to shake, yet his hands are steady. He's ready to shoot, he didn't lie.

"Do it," The creature (Daryl?) licks its own lips and presses forward, chest bumping right into the muzzle of the gun as it tilts its head and whispers right into the sheriff's ear. "Do it, and the whole prison's gonna hear. Not to mention all the damn walkers..."

Rick almost closes his eyes in a freak-out at the barest hint of a warm touch to the helix of his ear.

Rick knows the creature is right, so when it takes the final step, pushing Rick right against the cold stone-wall, he lowers the revolver.

"Why?" He searches the creature's face with his eyes, looking for any glimmer of...something. Insanity, blood lust, jest, anger. Rick tries to tell himself that he needs to focus on the _here_ and _now_ , focus on the _what does it want from me?_ rather than _what the heck is this thing?_

He finds absolutely nothing. Daryl's face is an emotionless mask tinted by the slightest hint of amusement, easy to miss, and Rick's stomach churns at the foreboding sense of doom that spreads inwards-out from his body.

"Why not?" The creature doesn't blink, staring at the sheriff with a piercing glare, and Rick hears the barely audible rustle of black wings behind it.

He is caught off-guard when a cool hand touches his face. Strong, rough fingers trace one of his cheekbones and then close around Rick's jaw, gripping him tight to the point of hurting.

"Took ya _too_ damn long," it breathes out, so low Rick almost doesn't hear it, and before he can react in any way, Daryl's look-alike presses his lips against Rick's mouth.

He freezes, paralyzed with a mixture of fear and pain as the creature grips his forearm in a bruising hold, and desperately tries to push it away, tries to turn his head sideways, do _anything_ , but his body refuses to listen.

He's gone into shock, any and all thoughts wiped clean as Daryl bites at his lips, like a starved wolf hungry for a specific something, and Rick is not too sure he wants to know what.

A second later the creature's fingers dig into his skin, force his jaw open as a slick, nimble tongue enters his mouth, tracing his gums and teeth with a warm, wet tip.

All of a sudden Rick's nerves begin to fire at the synapses, _finally_ sending his body into motion, and Rick might as well sing Hallelujah, but that would have been too soon; he is still captured in a violent grasp.

So Rick does the first thing that comes to his mind; he grabs the creature's neck, but instead of trying to force it off his mouth, pulls it in closer, an involuntary broken whimper coming out of his strained throat.

The man - angel? - grunts in approval, boxing Rick in and nibbling at his lower lip.

What is he doing?

All rational thought seems to leave Rick as his mind finally surrenders, shatters and breaks.

He just can't take any more of this, this everything.

Rick can feel the force of the other's body almost _smearing_ him against the wall, and he can't help but roll eyes as a knee comes up and presses harshly into his groin.

Their mouths part with a wet sound and the creature licks its lips, as if pondering the aftertaste. Rick finds it funny, but he can't laugh. He's breathless, panting and still scared.

He also doesn't give a fuck.

He thinks he might've gone hysterical as he feels unnatural laughter bubbling up his throat and getting stuck half-way.

He doesn't care, but he is frantic; not sure for what. Up is mixed with down, fear interlaced with arousal and the horrible, horrible pain in his chest bleeding into the pleasure building up in his groin. He is so broken, thoughts a wreck and emotions reeling, he wants to collapse on the floor and cry, scream some more until his throat starts bleeding.

He wants to shut down and hibernate. Maybe forever.

As if the creature feels his distraction, it grinds its knee against Rick's cock with much stronger force, grabbing the collar of his shirt and looking him straight in the eyes.

"All eyes on me, Grimes," it's a snarled order, and for a split second Rick feels relieved; For once, he's not in charge. He's been told what to do, he doesn't have to solve anything or think about this, he doesn't have to fo-

But then his mind tries to rebuke.

"Okay, listen... I really don't know who-" he doesn't get to finish.

The winged being with Daryl's visage launches forward (oh god, he's getting bulldozed into the wall, isn't he?), eyes ablaze with cold fury, and bites right into the junction of his neck with sharp teeth, drawing out a loud yelp from the man.

"Shut it," the thing rumbles, and as Rick looks over its shoulder he can see the dark, slender wings twitching in irritation. At least Rick thinks it's irritation.

He stutters out a compliant "O-ok", having the notion to raise his hands in a placating gesture, but his hand holding the Python is crushed between their bodies, and the other one has almost gone numb from the creature's painful grip.

Rick doesn't complain — probably won't do him any good at this point.

The creature re-latches onto his neck with a wet, sloppy sound, and makes a sharp suck that has Rick cringing.

"Don't like that, do ya?" The creature's gruff voice is laced with ill humour, and then it presses its lips back against warm skin and bites again, this time drawing a full, blown-out hiss from the man.

It lets go of Rick's arm and he doesn't need to look down to know it's already bruising in many ugly shades of black and purple, five perfectly spaced splotches of colour with crescented red marks from where the nails dug into his skin, breaking it.

Holding in a painful moan, Rick squeezes his eyes shut as the creature's hand roams in the confined space between their bodies, hitching Rick's dirty, bloodied shirt up over his hip and pressing its palm flat against his side.

Rick's legs finally give out — he's been running on fumes — but he doesn't hit the ground. The winged being holds him up, pinning Rick with its upper body and the knee planted firmly between his legs.

The thing chuckles, a dark, raspy sound, and the warm blow of air sends shivers down Rick's spine.

Rick can't concentrate on anything except his own breathing and the loud thud of his heart beating out of his chest.

Suddenly there's a touch of warm lips against his, and then a rough, eager hand grabs him through the jeans.

The Python slips from his cotton-like fingers in slow-motion, hitting the ground with a cacophony of sound, and Rick chokes on a gasp, beginning to slump to the side.

The creature growls and repositions him with a rough jostle, eyes glowing with venomous blue.

Then Rick's belt is being unfastened with jerky movements, and the creatures reaches for him, grasps him with its fingers and tugs.

Rick shudders.

He smells dust, sweat, and something he can't place his finger on, until he realizes it comes from the creature itself.

A heady coolness, a breeze of air mixed with steel and rain and thunderstorm.

Rick doesn't want this, tries to shut down his brain, do anything to escape the wicked creature's assault, but his mind seems to mock him by keeping him awake and overly-conscious of his surroundings.

His jeans end up down at his ankles as Daryl turns him around and rocks into Rick's pliant body, the corner of his mouth curling as he yanks the sheriff's shirt up and bends his head down to bite on his shoulder.

Rick is mortified, but so, so very tired. He wants everything to stop. He wants it to end, wants the world to go black, wants out of this misery that is pure existence, not even close to being called life.

All he can see is Lori's face, even as calloused fingers trace down his spine, caressing every bump and crevice, stopping just above his crack.

Rick leans his forehead on his arms braced against the wall and waits, because he has nothing else to do. No amount of pleading will stop the creature, and fighting has proven to be futile.

He's still hard, despite the disgust and fear clawing at him from the inside.

"Gotta relax, Officer," Daryl teases, voice rich with Southern accent as his fingers finally slide home.

Rick clamps his mouth shut, nostrils flaring with every harsh inhale he takes, and cringes when his entrance is breached; no hesitation, no reassurances or gentle caresses.

Daryl works him open with a determined pace, adding a second, then a third finger, all the while licking, nipping, sucking at Rick's pale skin — the nape of his neck, his shoulders, his back. Anything within reach.

Rick hears the rustle of wings and lets out a shuddering sigh, how whole body wrecking with uncontrollable shakes. A whimper almost makes its way out as Daryl flicks his fingers against that spot deep within, and Rick wants to tear his own vocal cords out.

"S-stop," he half-begs, half-demands, which earns him a dark chuckle.

"Ya don't mean that, Grimes," Daryl licks a wet trail on the outer shell of his ear, clamping his teeth on the edge. "Ya know ya wanna."

And some part of Rick screams and shutters in agony, the disgust and pain and anguish pouring out through his squeezed-shut eyelids. He wants to sob, but instead he just grinds his teeth harder and, suddenly, pushes back.

He is far gone.

There ain't no Rick Grimes here and now, not anymore.

There's just the broken shell of a man who is covered in blood and sweat, who's lost someone because _he was not there_ , wasn't _responsible enough_ to be there mere hours ago.

A man who has given up on himself and lost belief in anything he clang to in this new, fucked-up world.

And now this man needs someone to take control from him, needs to grind his broken pieces to dust and scatter them on the wind so he can rebirth through the pain, determination and fear.

Rick needs an anchor, and he suddenly realizes that this being can give it to him.

There's another merry chuckle, right into his ear, "Ya figured it out yet, Rick?"

The sheriff doesn't respond. He simply widens his stance and arches his back into the man, pushing against his warm ribcage.

"Do it," it's a firm order now, tumbling from his lips with a heavy breath.

Daryl, however, doesn't seem keen on obeying the suffering man.

"We're doing it my way, Grimes, and ya ain't got a say in it," he growls, and a jolt of pain shoots straight down Rick's neck. He feels blood trickling down, and realizes Daryl has broken the skin.

They don't exchange any more words as Daryl takes a step back and Rick hears the zipper being pulled down. Then, a rush of cold air beats down his clothed back and the room suddenly becomes much darker than it was before.

Daryl has spread his wings high and wide, stretching them to their full span, feathers bristling.

Rick doesn't want to look back, not really, but he finds himself manhandled once more. _God, isn't once enough for today?_

The creature makes him turn around, face-to-face, and stares right into his eyes with that glinting, steel gaze that makes it so different from the real Daryl Dixon he knows.

The angel takes a step closer, crowding Rick against the wall, and those wings look motherfucking menacing so up-close and personal. He growls and Rick's gaze flicks down, observing without any emotion as Daryl takes out his cock and gives it a sharp, tight stroke.

So he likes it with a dash of pain.

His mouth suddenly gone dry, RIck melts against the wall as the creature presses their bodies together and lifts one leg up, stepping right on his jeans and pinning the material to the floor.

"Get 'em off."

Rick obliges without as much as a word. The trembling has ceased, and it seems that his brain has shut down some important part responsible for all rational thought, because now all he does is stare at the man with apparent wonder. He lingers on those broad shoulders clad in black, on impossibly slim, compared to his upper body, hips, and unconsciously licks his lips. There's something aching to trepidation settling in his stomach, but that is of no import.

When Daryl grabs a hold of his leg and hoists him up, Rick's only option is to wrap his legs around his waist.

Dixon immediately goes in for the kill. He crashes their mouths together, and it's messy, wet, saliva dripping down the corner of either one's mouth (he can't tell whose, anyway), teeth clanking together and lips being bitten to a tender red. Simultaneously, never breaking the kiss, Daryl fumbles underneath Rick for a second, and then the sheriff feels the broad head of his cock against his opening.

Daryl slams home like it's the last thing he needs to do before the world burst into stardust and rubble. Rick screams, a hoarse, strained sound as he slams his head back against the wall, making himself dizzy from the impact. He feels himself splitting in two despite the brief preparation Daryl's offered him, and he isn't given any proper time to adjust as the being pulls out and drives right back in.

It's a merciless pounding, Daryl slamming into his tense body with such force that Rick's sure his back'll be covered in bruises come morning.

Rick tries to bite off the pained moans by clamping his teeth over his lower lip, wincing and clutching at Daryl's shoulders with everything he's got. The man feels solid beneath his fingers; inside him — too.

Soon, the stale air fills with gruff panting and groans coming from the creature, and Rick slowly begins to relax his muscles, getting used to the rough fucking. When Daryl angles his hips just slightly up and presses against his prostate, Rick digs his nails in, almost breaking the man in half with the tight grasp of his legs.

"C'mon, Sheriff, no one 's gonna hear ya," the angel teases, and it sounds like a promise. A tempting, sweet promise shrouded in black feathers.

And Rick believes him.

He lets go, allowing a drawn-out moan to slip past his lips, and Daryl rewards him with another push against that same spot.

This time Rick whimpers, "More."

Daryl grunts and leans forward, holding Rick up by his hips with a bruising grip, and kisses him with a fiery hunger that has the man panting against his mouth.

" _Scream_ , Sheriff," Dixon whispers against his already-bloodied lips, licking the stray droplets away.

Rick pulls him in closer with his legs, digging his heels into the man's lower back as if he wants to swallow him whole with his body. On the same wave of desire, Grimes slips his hands past Daryl's shoulders and, without thought, grabs at Daryl's protruding extra set of limbs.

And Daryl goes absolutely ballistic.

The snarl that escapes him is anything but human as his wings beat up, feathers gleaming like knives on end-point, and the following thrusts are nothing but pain as Rick yowls.

He is trying to take it, sweat rolling down his back in bullets, and he is so hard it makes him want to curl in on himself. The hurt is almost unbearable.

Then Daryl bites on his cheekbone, tongue slipping against the rough fuzz of his beard, teeth digging in and drawing more blood, smearing it against his lips. And Rick comes. Oh God, _he comes_. He's shooting so hard the jizz splashes against his chin, but he can't care less, because the edges of his vision become fuzzy, his head swimming as he feels Daryl burst deep within him. Its warm and strange, and he feels like every bone in his body is broken, which probably justifies the sob he lets out into the man's dark auburn hair.

The last thing he sees before his system goes into reboot are the humongous (weren't they smaller?), beautiful wings spread over them like a chapel.

He thinks he hears an amused, sinister chuckle and a "G'night, Sheriff." as well.

⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝⇝

Rick comes to the next morning. He can tell it's morning by the dusty rays of sunlight floating into the prison room through the barred windows.

He tries to get up with some difficulty, but finally manages to hold up on his own two legs, not needing to prop himself against the wall, like he's being afraid he might have to.

The sun outside seems too bright and hurts his eyes, so he has to squint. That's when he notices some members of their group scattered around the yard.

They seem to notice him too.

"Rick! How are you?" Maggie is careful, her tone calm as if Rick's a spooked horse. And maybe he is. He just nods at her, blinking owlishly at the many faces greeting him with different types of expressions.

When his gaze settles on Daryl, Rick flinches. This seems to not go unnoticed by the man, as he gets up from his spot beside the fence and walks up to the sheriff, laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Ya alright, man?"

Rick stares at him like he's grown a second head, a tail and a set of wings.

_Wings._

He swallows the lump in his throat, and brushes Daryl's hand off, unable to look him in the eye.

"Yes, I'm fine." Rick spaces out for a bit, collecting the whirlwind that is his thoughts, until he finally mutters, "Maggie, could you bring me a mirror? Please."

It's a strange request, judging by the puzzled expression on everyone's faces, but the girl scatters to fulfill it none the less.

The crazy and the handicapped get their needs met firsthand even in the apocalypse.

When she finally brings him a broken piece of a mirror, Rick dreads to take a look inside.

Steeling his resolve, he takes a deep inhale and lowers his gaze.

He sees a rugged, tired face with visible dark bags under his eyes, a few splatters of gunk and blood here and there, but nothing else.

No bite on his left cheekbone.

No bite on his neck.

No bruises, nothing.

And Rick laughs. At first, it's a tentative little chuckle, but then it cascades into a full-blown laugh, a note of hysteria slipping into the sound.

He laughs and he laughs, sinking to his knees and clamping a hand over his eyes, and when he does that, he sees the maleficent gleam of those steel-blue eyes.

And he swears he hears a raspy, dirty voice saying "Scream for me, Rick Grimes. _Scream_." right in his ear.


End file.
